The Curious Case of the Missing Moustache
by Melospiza
Summary: Watson glanced down at his paper again, but grew apprehensive as Holmes drew nearer, the detective's long white hand making a beeline for Watson's face.


**The Curious Case of the Missing Moustache**

by Melospiza

**A/N: **It's been a while, hasn't it? :D

* * *

"Good God, Watson, what have you done to your face?"

Watson glanced up from the paper, his brows lifted in mute query, to where Sherlock Holmes stood in the open doorway, giving him a rather startled look. Watson was settled comfortably in his armchair, in his study, the remnants of his tea on the table to the left of his elbow, in his shirtsleeves and bracers with the sleeves comfortably shot up to his elbows. And somewhere in the previous several hours, he seemed to have misplaced his moustache. Specifically, it was no longer in its customary position situated just beneath his nose.

"What are you talking about?" asked Watson. Holmes gave a surprised jerk as he watched Watson's mouth move.

"Your moustache, old boy. It's quite taken leave of you."

One eyebrow lifted higher than the other, and Watson's lips pursed just slightly. The minute change in the muscles of his face entirely arrested Holmes's attention.

"I've been here for two days, and you're just noticing?"

"Yes, well, I've been preoccupied," Holmes murmured, each word uttered with deliberate care as he began to cross the room toward Watson, his hand outstretched. Watson glanced down at his paper again, but grew apprehensive as Holmes drew nearer, the detective's long white hand making a beeline for Watson's face. Watson threw his arm over the back of his armchair and began a slow recoil, so that by the time Holmes's fingers connected with Watson's skin, Watson was half-crouched on the chair, leaning over the back of it in a way that threatened its stability.

"What are you doing?" he sputtered.

Holmes traced the tip of his index finger across Watson's upper lip, then fit the pad of his finger neatly into the indentation above it. Watson blinked rapidly.

"If it bothers you that much, I can grow it back," he said.

Holmes merely grunted in response, his dark eyes flicking rapidly over Watson's features. The face before him, once so familiar, seemed entirely foreign with such a distinctive feature callously removed. Had Watson's eyes always been so blue? It was foolish to think otherwise, and yet there they were, seeming far bluer than Holmes's impressive memory could account for. He seemed younger, despite the creases at the corners of his eyes and across his brow, his eyelashes seeming uncommonly long, his cheekbones uncommonly well-defined. And – good heavens, there was not one mole upon his cheek, but two; so faint as to easily blend into the surrounding skin, yet distinct now that the moustache did not remain to detract from them. It seemed almost as if Holmes was faced with an entirely new person; and yet when he met those startlingly blue eyes, he found that the gaze, at least, was familiar. His own dear Watson yet resided there, clever and steadfast and as puzzled by Holmes's eccentric behavior as he so often was. He did not protest, but remained tensely coiled upon the seat of the chair.

"Does it bother me?" Holmes considered at last. He made a low, roughly thoughtful sound as he finally retreated, sinking backward and reaching out to swing a footstool closer in one fluid movement before settling his weight upon the embroidered seat. He ran his palm across his mouth and chin before steepling his hands before him and giving Watson a deeply contemplative look.

"I'm not sure how I feel."

Watson slowly dropped back into the armchair, unfolding his legs and re-situating the newspaper upon his lap.

"You ponder it," he said, though Holmes missed the wary glance of his eyes as he focused entirely upon the motion of Watson's mouth as Watson continued, "Just warn me if you decide to do that again."

"Of course," said Holmes.

Watson lifted the paper and began to read, but after a few minutes the prickling sensation creeping along the back of his neck grew to be too much and he looked back at Holmes. The dark-haired man hadn't moved an inch, still hunched forward upon the footstool, staring fixedly at Watson's face. The sunlight shining through the window made the scruff on the right side of the doctor's face seem golden. His lips were distractingly pinkish.

Watson folded the newspaper entirely and sat back with a sigh, crossing his legs and returning Holmes's unsettling stare. The clock on the mantle ticked loudly in the silence.

"Why did you do it?" Holmes asked suddenly.

"Shave my moustache? I just wanted to try something new, I suppose."

Holmes folded his hands beneath his chin, his eyes glittering as he gave Watson an indulgent smile.

"Oh, come now, Watson, tell the truth. Dishonesty doesn't suit you."

The faint tinge of pink that crept up Watson's cheeks made Holmes want to leap from his chair for reasons he could not entirely fathom. Watson shook the paper open noisily and cleared his throat.

"Mary said it tickled," he mumbled.

"Ah," said Holmes.

Silence descended once again as Watson peered at the paper and Holmes peered at Watson's face.

"I don't like it at all," Holmes declared at last, straightening upon the footstool. "You are not my Watson."

Watson exhaled a quiet breath and glanced at Holmes briefly, his head still angled downward. He shrugged his shoulders in a casual manner as he said, "Then I'll grow it back."

"That will take some time, however," noted Holmes. He reached out to place his hand on the arm of Watson's chair as he rose from the footstool, leaning quite close to the doctor, his dark eyes once again set on Watson's mouth.

"Until then, your upper lip and I will have to be most thoroughly acquainted."

Watson lifted his head at last, turning to look at Holmes directly.

"Fair enough," he said.


End file.
